Your Heartbeat Is An Earthquake To My Guitar
by eshajouri
Summary: "The function of music is to release us from the tyranny of conscious thought." Nine quick drabbles. Creek.


**A/N**: Hello there c: my account here is getting rusty, haha. I've written this a while ago – like, months ago – and never uploaded it 'cause I wanted to finish it. It's that challenge you have to put your music player on shuffle and write something with the song that pops up. I had to stop on the 7th song and never got to finish it, but I at least got to use some ideas that were stuck in my head. I'm literally cross-eyed right now while correcting this 'cause I haven't got any sleep this night, but please, enjoy reading this as much as I did writing it!

**Disclaimer**: none of the songs used belong to me. The title is inspired on a verse of Californication, by RHCP.

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><p><strong>Your Heartbeat Is An Earthquake To My Guitar<strong>

**1.****Bored**, by the Deftones.  
>(17 years old)<p>

Craig Tucker is a weird guy. As his best friend, I know his hobbies include playing his guitar, listening to music and _lying._

"I was hospitalized," he said when the teacher asked the reason of his absence. "I tried to kill myself."

The class let a collective gasp fill the air as silence followed. As a professional, Mr. Garrison didn't ask anymore, but his eyes gave away the perplexity everyone held, except for me. I knew he was lying. When he thought no one else was watching him, that grin crept on his lips when he fooled someone; it was fucking obnoxious, just like all of his personality—sometimes I ask myself why I'm even friends with him.

"Why did you—ngh—lie about trying to kill yourself?" I frowned when we were in his room later that same day, watching him play the guitar.

"I was bored," he said. "You know I lie when I'm bored."

He took off his jacket; his arm was covered in bandages, and I could see, even after bandaged, it had bled and stained the white fabric. I frowned again.

"Are you bored right now?"

He grinned. "Yeah."

Craig Tucker is a fucking weird guy.

**2.** **Viva la vida**_, _by Coldplay.  
>(14 years old)<p>

I used to think I ruled life. By maintaining everything safe and boring, I thought I had life under my control. How mistaken was I?

I'm pretty much the average guy. My grades are average, my friends aren't the outstanding type, I'm not popular, but I'm not one of the freaks; I'm pretty much invisible. I liked life this way, you know; people won't notice me, so I won't be compelled to deal with them and their bullshit. My house is common, I've liked Red Racer since forever. I'm not dirty rich, I'm not piss-poor. Little sister, a guinea pig. Life is simple.

It used to be, at least.

My parents started fighting and divorced; my dad started drinking and my mom is on meds right now, because she can barely pay the bills with this fucked up economy. We don't have dinner everyday, but I honestly don't mind. I'd say I'm worried about my sister; kids need food and a balanced ambient to grow properly, and she's getting none of these. I started biting on my nails, I sold Stripe (it fucking hurts just to remember his face when I handed him and his cage to a kid that lives two blocks from here), I sold my guitar and some of my games. Mom never noticed; I gave all the money to Ruby so she could eat at school.

Tweek was the first to notice my new habits. I actually cried on his shoulder. I fucking hate crying.

"AGH! Ch-chill out, man," he said, petting my back. Fucking gay. "I'm sure—ngh—things will settle down. Seriously, Jesus—ngh, You don't have to worry so much."

"Said the paranoid coffee-addict."

He laughed at that. I groaned in response.

"It's just..." I sighed. "What did I do to deserve all this? I keep an average life and never asked for much. Really? Is God _that _fucked up? I just want peace. I want Ruby to grow up and not have to be an emotionless piece of shit like me," I admitted. "I fucking hate not showing my emotions. I fucking hate keeping things safe and boring, I—I just can't deal with them if they're not safe and boring."

He smiled. I love when he smiles. Not that psychotic smile everyone has, but that understanding, caring smile just a best friend has.

"You know, ngh," he patted my back three more times. "Don't be so systematical. L-life isn't a machine and you're—ngh—not a robot," he quietly mutter an 'I hope so' under his breath. "Things will change suddenly and there will be things out there to get you the next corner you turn," he let out an exasperated sigh, as though he wished not. "But that doesn't mean you've gotta be paranoid like me. I-I've always admired you because you're always cool, Craig. Don't—don't worry, 'kay? Life will turn out to be okay. Life stands on pillars of fucking sand. They'll crumble eventually, but that doesn't mean you can't get to the top again and rule your kingdom of safety and boredom."

I smiled, too.

I haven't in a long time.

"You talk too nice for a paranoid coffee-addict."

He laughed again. I love Tweek's laugh.

**3.** **The evil has landed**, by Testament.  
>(15 years old)<p>

Tweek listens to death metal when he goes to sleep. I can't sleep next to him because his headphones blast with heavy guitar accords and violent drumbeats; he says it calms him down (strangely enough), because if there's anything out to kill him at night, at least he won't wake up before the killing starts and he won't have to handle the suspense and pressure. He hopes to just wake up dead (if it makes any sense) and not feel pain. That's why I get little to no sleeps during sleepovers—I need dead silence to fall asleep.

So tonight we're at Clyde's place. Clyde and Token are already hibernating and Tweek's headphones pump like thousands of furious woodpeckers on cocaine. I groan and keep tossing and turning on my sleeping bag, but sleep will never come. I decide to fucking end it and crawl to Tweek and tear his headphones off; his eyes shoot open and I cover his mouth as he's ready to beg me _GAH PLEASE DON'T KILL ME_. I place a finger on my lips, signing him to just _shut the fuck up or I'll indeed kill you_.

"_Craig_," he whispers, tears on the corner of his eyes. "You scared the living _shit_ out of me!"

"I can't sleep," I pull the headphones and check his iPod; the lyrics are all about death, destruction and the September 11th—I roll my eyes. Of fucking _course_ Tweek has nightmares so often. "Your music is too loud. And fucking scary."

Tweek made an inhuman sound and tore his iPod from my hands. "It helps _me_ sleep!"

My eyes feel heavy and I could feel my mood worsening; not a good sign in any situation, unless the task of my life is to go out and kill and slaughter as many living things I can.

"Listen," I rub my temples. "Get in here," I command, giving him space in my sleeping bag.

"What—"

"Just get your ass the fuck over here," and he does, probably scared by my threatening tone. Someone who listens to this kind of music shouldn't be afraid of _me_, but, well, that's Tweek. "If anything tries to kill you, it'll probably kill me first and you'll have time to run. So turn your music the fuck down, okay."

"But, Craig—"

I eye him with dark circles around my eyes, which probably makes me a little scarier than the bogeyman, so he agrees. I think he's embarrassed about sleeping with another dude in the same sleeping bag, but he just mutters a 'thank you' and he's soon sound asleep.

By the morning, I'm still unable to sleep. Tweek's hair and scent and eventual jitters had kept me fully aware of the just so convenient boner that grew in my pants when I found myself self-conscious about how badly I wanted him to stop listening to death metal. Forever.

**4. Bother**, by Stone Sour.  
>(19 years old)<p>

_I hate emotions. I hate feeling hurt, I hate being heartbroken, I hate the fact you love him so much._

_We used to be best friends. You used to hug me and talk to me and look at me, but he showed up. You used to fix my flaws. You filled the void I have in my chest, but he stole you. He took the only person I treasured. He stole the reason I took my medication properly, the only one that kept me from slipping further and further into depression._

_How melodramatic, you might be thinking. But it isn't. You used to keep me from collapsing into a mental breakdown, but now I have nothing left. There's nothing without you; I'm not talented, I can't do anything without freaking out, I'm a fucking mess without my meds. What's my life worth if I can't be yours? The only reason I kept myself from suicide was you. You had fun with me, you said I'm amazing. But you left. I don't blame you, really. There's no one to blame except myself._

_I'm sorry. I'm sorry I'm not interesting like he is, I'm sorry I can't do anything without you. I'm sorry I couldn't hold you, I'm sorry I'm so dependent, I'm sorry I have nothing to hold onto but you. I'm sorry I'm this freak and I'm sorry I'm doing this. I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm really, **really** sorry. I love you. Will you look at me now?_

_Don't bother to blame yourself._

_I just love you._

_I'm sorry. It's not your fault._

_- Tweek_

That note broke his heart beyond belief. Tweek's parents had given it to him on the day of the funeral, mumbling words about regret and how they didn't know about how their son's conditions had worsened so much. Of course they didn't. No one paid attention to Tweek, except for him. Until he let someone else blind him. Why did he leave Tweek? Why did he have to fall so hard for Thomas so recklessly? Why couldn't he have seen Tweek's signs of struggle? Why why why why why _why_?

He cried like he hadn't for years.

_It's not your fault._

**5. My Apocalypse**, by Metallica.  
>(16 years old)<p>

It's all about being young. Crossing lines they shouldn't, never facing the consequences, laughing and living and loving, breaking rules, annihilating limits, desecrating their bodies, disobeying. It's about being wild and enjoying life as it shouldn't be enjoyed. It's profane and heretic, but it's youth and joy and there are bets that are made and risks that are taken; they judge themselves to be brighter than adults, they're quicker and smarter and they can do it _just a little longer _before the end comes and responsibilities substitutes fun.

Tweek's back hurt as they encounter the wall, a silent cry echoes in the empty church.

"Jesus," he mutters as Craig's mouth smashes against his.

"He's watching, yeah," and they laugh, breaths tangling in a languid kiss. "Behave yourself before the Lord, boy."

Tweek wraps an arm around Craig's neck, pulling him into a kiss again. Dark velvet covers the sky outside and the moonlight invades their shelter through the colored glasses on the ornamented windows; cherubims watch them make unholy love, a claustrophobic sensation dissipated in a space that is too big, right in front the eyes of God, a proof of love and belief through carnal desire.

Hazel eyes blurred with lust make contact with the ones of beautiful sculptures of angels, and he pants, "Are—are we going to hell?"

"No," Craig answers, face buried in the curve of Tweek's neck and shoulder. "God's not the asshole they say He is."

The unspoken promises of meeting him in Heaven or blazing hell to find him melted in the air, as both waited for tyrants of the world to part them and send them wherever young love led them.

**6. Diamond eyes**, by the Deftones.  
>(21 years old)<p>

He held my hand tightly, our feet were at the very edge.

"Tweek," he said, voice soft and cool, not his usual monotone. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

I hesitantly nod.

"I'm not forcing you," his grip tightened. "I want to know you're positive about this."

"I am," I reassure, now without hesitation. "I want—ngh, I want us to be together."

He smiles.

"I love you."

I smile.

We look into each other's eyes, but we don't kiss; we save our loving to wherever we are going. Be it hell or just an empty space where there is just the two of us ahead, we save it. We simply hope the principle of conservation of physics, where nothing vanishes of the universe, saves our souls into eternal particles. We hope for an immortal reality, we hope for endless time together; we hope for many things. We disconnect from this world and leave everything behind.

We hope.

We jump.

Into wherever is waiting for us on the infamous other side.

**7. The traveling song**, by Hans Zimmer & will.  
>(17 years old)<p>

They talk about a lot of things. They discuss things that aren't meant to teenagers, like life and death, or physics and aliens and conspiracies, possibilities, everything their time allows; they speak of things they are afraid to share with other people, insecurities,theories_—everything._

"Madagascar actually talks about slavery, don't you think?" Tweek starts, staring at the TV. Craig eyes him curiously, probably something his mind was too distracted by the movie to formulate. Tweek smiles—he likes surprising Craig. "Like, ngh, they're caged at the zoo, you know? And then they find the wild: freedom. It's all they dreamed of, but they're so attached to the life in a comfortable prison they do everything they can to go back to New York. It's a metaphor about how we should choose to be slaves to capitalism over the freedom of the true human nature; the wild, the dirty, the _struggle_!"

Craig seems to think a little about it, let the information sink in; it might sound absurd, but, somehow, it does make some sense.

"In the end they kinda stay in Madagascar," Tweek goes on. "But in the sequel, they're all happy because they'll get to go back to the zoo. However," he gestures to the air violently, "their plane crashes! And—GAH!—they are stuck in the wild again! The wild represents now the monarchy: a time where neoliberalism isn't allowed; they all think it's antiquated, they won't fit. The animals in the savanna represent a superstitious people—they offer Melman as a sacrifice to get their water back. They're what we think it's not civilized, what we don't deem as socially acceptable. Again, it portraits capitalism as the ideal civilization, the clean, the comfortable, where we won't get into dangerous situations. It's a fucked up subliminal message, man!"

Craig blinks; his mouth was open in bewilderment with Tweek's speech. He wondered why the spazz wouldn't talk like that to other people. He could be persuasive, and maybe a little subversive, but it was definitely some kind of gift; he could brainwash people, if he willed so.

"You're right," he admitted, not very sure of what he should say. "You're right, but we have to agree that Madagascar 2 has an awesome soundtrack."

"Hans Zimmer is a genius," Tweek smiled almost psychotically, because if there was anything he liked talking about more than conspiracies and capitalism, it was music.

Craig smiled warmly; he fucking loved talking about those weird ass things with Tweek.

**8. secret base ~kimi ga kureta mono~**, by ZONE.  
>(10 years old)<p>

"So... you're moving to San Francisco?"

"Yeah," he answers, unconsciously shifting his weight from a foot to the other, hands playing with the misbuttoned shirt. "My parents are worried about grandma. She's ill and—ngh—yeah."

They couldn't look each other in the eyes; it was way too awkward to deal with leaving someone at such a young age. Their mouths were dry, even though they never voiced the fact, and the hands of both were wet with cold sweat. Goodbyes made Tweek nervous, and for Craig, it was just too sudden.

"But—ngh," he tried. "We'll come back. Mom says probably in a year, when everything settles down. We'll hang out when I'm back, and we can, like, send letters and stuff."

Craig raised his glance, and tried a small smile.

"'Kay," he stretched his arm and held out a hand. "Promise?"

They both thought the pinky promise would feel safer, but they felt too old for that. So they shook hands.

"P-promise."

"Next summer then," he held tightly his best friend's hand. "We'll hang out and do whatever 11-years-old do."

"Right," he felt his chest tighten a little; why couldn't he just stay here? "Send me letters, man. And call. I don't want to die from loneliness in San Francisco until next summer."

"I will."

Craig secretly wished Tweek couldn't make friends in San Francisco and got back soon, but he never said it aloud. Tweek silently wished Craig would call everyday, because he felt he wouldn't survive without listening to his voice; but he couldn't speak those words out of his mind.

Ah, next summer seemed so far away.

**9. Semáforo**, by Vanguart.

We are the generation that doesn't believe in our hearts. We believe in traffic lights, airplanes, science, signals, systems. Not emotions, not the abstract—it's absurd. Incoherent even. Dumb, we'd say. Unnecessary.

We are somewhere—maybe anywhere. Doesn't matter. It never does.

We are apathetic.

We don't believe. We judge, we think, but we won't be revolutionaries. We are stoic.

We are the generation born to die.

It's Tuesday.

We are depressed.

We want to die.


End file.
